Aftermath
by Calenheniel
Summary: [Modern AU; Helsa, Kristanna.] He was her sister's fiancé, then; but he wanted her, and Elsa wanted to let someone in—and now, he's a stranger, but she can't leave, because she needs him. / She was engaged to the perfect guy, then; but he wasn't perfect, and Anna was betrayed—and now, she's with a man who cares, but she can't understand why he does.
1. Scene 1

**Author's Note:** I've been writing this story quite furiously over the past two weeks, and as you'll see from the format below, each scene ranges from 1-3 pages, and there is, at this point, a total of 31 scenes. Each scene will be from either Elsa or Anna's POV, and takes place in the vague time periods of "now" or "then." All the scenes are also _not _in chronological order—so by the time this is complete, you guys can have fun piecing them all back together. The ships dealt with in this fic include Kristanna, Helsa, and some Hanna as well.

* * *

**Scene 1: Elsa, now**

_She loves him._

She's staring at the freckles on his back from the bed, and even though he's left the door open, _again, _she's not cold like she should be.

There's something soothing about the sharp planes of his shoulders, his arms, his waist—something _familiar_ that she always latches onto, even when she remembers that she hardly knows him at all.

She's tempted to say something typical, like "come back to bed, Hans," or "aren't you getting cold out there?", but there's no point, since he wouldn't reply to her, anyway.

She recalls a time when he used to stay with her after he finished—many times, really—but it's been so long that she's forgotten what it's like to have his warmth pressed up against her while she's sleeping, to feel his deep, quiet breathing tickle the nape of her neck.

Now, the closest she can get to him is this—watching him from the bed and drinking in his figure as it leans on the railing of the balcony of the hotel room, dressed only in loose black sweatpants, his torso and feet bare, his auburn hair rustled by the breeze.

It would almost be sensuous, she thinks, if he were looking at her; but he hasn't looked at her, not _really,_ not since then—and she hasn't at him, either, not since he left Anna, and lied to her—lied to _both_ of them.

She can hear his lies ringing in her ears even then, like an alarm, warning her, _screaming_ at her to _get out already_—and why is she still there, why isn't she moving, when everyone else has already _run away?_

But she can't—she knows she can't—because she loves him.


	2. Scene 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks so much for all the support for the first instalment! Love you guys. Also, I should clarify: the "then" scenes are out of chronological order, but the "now" scenes are not - they represent a "live" sequence of events, so to speak. Hope that clears things up.

* * *

**Scene 2: Anna, then**

_The first time she saw him._

The first time she saw him, he was standing on the balcony, staring at the moon.

He easily stood out from everyone else at the party—for one thing, he wasn't dressed up, even though it was supposed to be '80s themed—and even though he was wearing a black suit, and his hair, from what she could tell, was a dark red, he just … seemed to _glow._

It was the first frat party she'd ever been to, and she'd been slightly wary going in, after hearing horror stories from Elsa about what happened to innocent, bright-eyed freshman girls like her at those sorts of things.

But she'd spent so _long _away from people, and away from this kind of life, that she'd ignored all those warnings, and stories, and _tales, _because she just wanted to see what it was like for herself.

It quickly became apparent, though, that everyone at the party had "pre-gamed" before arriving (or at least that's what she guessed, based on what little she knew)—and that some of them already knew her by her reputation, "Princess Anna," the baby sister of the infamous "Ice Queen Elsa" who'd graduated just a few months earlier—so she'd had to dodge a few leering stares, awkward pick-up lines, and _wandering_ hands by the time she came across him there, leaning on the railing, his eyes like bright emeralds.

She was too stunned by the sight of him, at first, to say anything at all; somehow, it didn't help that a few of the frat brothers came by every so often and tapped him on the shoulder, or gave him a light punch, and he returned their drunken shouts with a smirk that set her cheeks on _fire_.

He looked older, though, than them—not by much, but enough to set off her curiosity (not that that was _particularly _hard to do)—but before she'd been able to muster up the courage to say something, she was suddenly _shoved _right into him when another girl pushed past her to get to the drinks.

She was mortified as they disentangled themselves from one another, and she apologised, _profusely, _just hoping to make a quick getaway before he saw how red her face was.

But then, unexpectedly, he _smiled _at her—and there was a warmth to it that took her aback completely.

_You must be a first year, _he said with that same smile, and she wondered if her swallowing was as obvious as it felt when she nodded, her hands curling together in front of her like Elsa's always did.

_Is this your first frat party? _he asked her, and she nodded again, biting her lip as she was wont to do, and finally gripped the railing, trying to ignore the inebriated partygoers that nearly ran into her again as she told him it was, and that she didn't know what to expect, really—but that this was a little _much._

He chuckled at that, making her shudder at the heat that rose in her throat, because the sound of his laughter was, actually, _lovely_—but saying that out loud, let alone to someone she'd just _met, _was probably too forward … even for her.

_Hans, _he offered her a hand, and she took it, telling him her name; and when he stared at her in silence, she looked at him sheepishly, and clarified that, well, her last name is _Andersen, _but really, she's just _Anna. _

"_Just" Anna?_

He wore a wondering look, and that made her a little uncomfortable—but then he smiled again, and her anxiousness melted away, and he went on as if she _hadn't _just told him that she was one of the daughters of the biggest private equity firms in Arendelle.

_Well, "just" Anna—it's nice to meet you._

She couldn't help but smile back at that, and then she asked, automatically, what about _him—_but before he could reply, another brother came by and smacked him hard on the shoulder, shouting _Hey, Westergard! Get room service to bring up more drinks, would you? _with a good-natured guffaw—and he grinned absently at the half-joking command.

It took her a minute to connect the dots; that name, _his _name, sounded so familiar.

She glanced up above them, then to her side, where there was an empty cup resting on a napkin, a napkin with the fleur-de-lis seal of the hotel emblazoned on it, and the hotel's name was—

Her eyes widened and her mouth went slightly ajar when she asked him, and he sighed.

_Yes, I'm the same—Hans Westergard of The Westergard Hotels. It's not _mine,_ though, or anything._

She couldn't help but ask him more about it, though she feared that he was probably tired of people badgering him about the family business, or sharing some trite anecdote or story about a crazy weekend they spent in one of the hotels.

To her surprise, though, he was pleasant about it—_cheerful, _even, as he told her that _they're just having me trained at this branch as a manager for a while, since I went to college here_—and she realised, with a new kind of delight that tied her stomach in knots, that he was the first guy she'd ever talked to so easily, and who was just as interested in her as she was him, and not just for her _money._

He told her more about himself: that he had _twelve older brothers, and not the nicest guys either, if I'm being honest; _that they all were involved, in some way or another, with the family business; and that he'd been a brother of the fraternity hosting the current party when he was in college (which she'd figured out on her own), but he'd already been in the working world for over two years by then, and so once in a while, he helped them organise their socials—like lending them a room in _The Westergard_, for example.

She soaked in the details like a sponge, fascinated by each and every one—so much so that when he suddenly asked her _What are you majoring in?, _she pinked, not expecting him to ask _her_ anything, and admitted, with embarrassment, that she was still undeclared.

And how _strange_ that must seem to him, she thought, since her older sister was the paradigm of studiousness and beauty and intelligence and had known what she'd wanted to do _months _before she'd even applied to college, but _she _was just—

_It's all right, Anna—it's _good _to be different from your sister, anyway, isn't it?_

She was mute with silence at that for a while, and then she stared at him—probably for too long, since he eventually laughed at her wide eyes, breaking the spell, and she noticed, for the first time, the freckles dotting his cheeks, just like hers—but he didn't seem to mind, or get bored, because there was a beautiful kind of _understanding _in his green eyes.

(And when he asked her for her number a few minutes later, she was sure, at least, that she wasn't annoying him.)


	3. Scene 3

**Scene 3: Elsa, then**

_He wanted to know more about her._

_Hello, Elsa._

A chill ran down her spine when she heard his voice—but it wasn't grating and _horrible _like she hoped it would be, and so she frowned at him, carefully placing the book she'd been perusing back on the shelf.

She asked him if he followed her there; the possibility set her on edge, since that library was far from the city, far from the people they knew or any _others _who wanted to document her every move and plaster it all over the internet, and she was wary that even that one, safe place outside of her room at home was being _invaded_.

_Don't flatter yourself. I was just meeting a client who lives nearby—_

And then he just _happened _to find himself in that _particular_ library, afterwards?

She snorted at the idea, crossing her arms, her eyes darting back and forth to make sure no one was passing by, or _listening_—because these days, it seemed like someone always was.

_Awfully suspicious, aren't we?_

She pointed out that he didn't seem like the academic type, and he smirked—that awful, _infuriating _little thing.

_Don't judge a book by its cover, _he replied, and she scowled, asking him for what seemed the millionth time (even though it was only the first) what he was doing there, in _that _place.

_I could ask _you_ the same thing, _he retorted, and that made her bite her tongue for at least a second, even if she didn't want to.

In her silence, he relented. _All right, you want the truth? I was seeing a client in the area, and then when the meeting finished and I was driving back to the city, I saw you go in here. _

He ran a hand through his hair, and she found herself mildly distracted by how smooth it looked, even under the fluorescent lights.

_So yes—I did follow you here. Sort of._

She was irritated with the fact that anything about him could _distract _her, so she snapped at him—snapped that she wasn't going to drop everything she was doing just because he'd decided to _grace _her with his presence.

_What _are _you doing, anyway? _

He looked pointedly at her, and her face reddened—and she wished that she weren't so _twisted up _over the intensity of his eyes when she scathingly replied that she was _obviously _reading.

_Yes, I can see that—I meant _what _are you reading? _He took the books from her arms, and she tried to protest, but he just went on. _"Form, Space and Order"; "Fundamentals of Building Construction"; "The Dynamics of Architectural Form"—you interested in this stuff?_

She finally managed to tear her gaze away from his, directing it at the ground, at her shuffling feet, as she told him she was just studying it for fun, that's all.

_Seems like a pretty advanced book for someone who's just studying it for "fun." _He paused, and his eyebrow quirked up, contemptuous _knowing _stitched into it.

_This wouldn't have anything to do with your plans to travel … _south,_ would it?_

She glared at him for that, because it wasn't his business—but he only drew closer, and retorted _then maybe you shouldn't have told me_—and she cut him off before he could continue, practically spitting at him that he should just forget about what she said already, because it wasn't as if she were _actually _planning on going anywhere anymore, so he couldn't use that information to blackmail her, or whatever _else _he had planned.

Blackmail _you? Honestly, Elsa—what kind of person do you think I am? _

If it had come out of anyone else's mouth, she might have believed the wounded tone. From him, though, it just sounded like disingenuous _bullshit, _and she made that much clear—made it clear that she thought he was a _gold digger _from the very start, and the fact that he'd _lied _to her when they first met, that he _pretended _as if he didn't know who she was, only reinforced that impression.

_Was I under some kind of _obligation _to tell you that I knew you? _He scoffed, raising an eyebrow. _And if you think I'm a _"gold digger," _then you obviously don't know me at _all_._

And she didn't have any _intention _of getting to know him, either.

_Well, that's a shame. After all—I want to know more about _you.

She blinked at that, and asked him why before she'd even processed what he said—before she understood what he _meant._

_Well, for one thing, we're going to be family soon—_

She huffed at the suggestion, glowered at him—

—_and besides, I like you. No, let me amend that—I'm _intrigued _by you._

She felt the heat rise to her face before she had the sense to stop it, and she barely managed to ask him what he was _talking _about—

_Elsa, the "Ice Queen" no one ever sees, the introverted heiress to one of the biggest firms in the country—but who secretly wants to run off to some island and build houses for poor villagers, pursuing her dreams of becoming an architect—_

She felt sick listening to him—listening to his _words, _when he didn't know anything about her, no, nothing at _all._

_I know enough to make some _educated _guesses, _he said with a slow grin, _and based on those—how could I _not _take an interest in you?_

She reminded him, once her skin was done _boiling _and she felt the blood start to leave her face, that he was _engaged _to her _sister_; but he'd been just as dismissive of that as everything else _(Your point being?), _so she took the blunter route, and told him more harshly that he shouldn't have been there, talking to her like that.

_Like what, Elsa?_

She swallowed, and said he should leave, because she couldn't think of anything else to say—of anything else to make him _stop._

_As you wish_.

He bowed, and the bow was strangely formal, and _gentlemanly;_ then, unexpectedly, he brushed a hand over her bare shoulder—over her freckles—and he left, just as she asked him to, not another word spoken between them.

But when she was alone again, she shuddered, and she didn't understand why her stomach felt hot and tight.


	4. Scene 4

**Scene 4: Anna, now**

_She doesn't trust him._

She's horrible to Kristoff—she knows that.

Ever since they met, she's been pushing him away, even though she knows, instinctively, that he's not a bad person, or a liar.

(But maybe that's part of the problem, since she doesn't _trust _her own instincts anymore, not when it comes to people—and _especially _not when it comes to guys.)

And that's only reinforced, she thinks bitterly, by everyone around her—by the other rich _brats _on campus who've made her a pariah, a veritable _legend _as Anna Andersen, the rich girl who got fucked and chucked by the whipping boy of the Southern Isles and her own _sister_—and even by the people who helped raise her, who now look at her, no, _stare _at her in judgment every day, shaking their heads, wondering how she could have been so _blind._

He's not like them, not in the least; he's blunt, and honest, so _painfully _honest that it makes her, contradictorily, even _more_ suspicious of him, because sometimes even the people who say "I love you" and "I would never shut you out" are also the ones who say "I've been searching my whole life to find my own place" (and what they mean is their own place in a _giant pile of her money,_ or between her sister's legs).

It doesn't help that he's just a cab driver in a big city, hardly making ends meet, so even if she _wanted _to let him in—and she _doesn't, _she thinks with a frown—it's hard to believe that he's really interested in her for anything besides her inheritance, and sometimes she wishes he would just tell her that that's the real reason he hangs out with her.

After all, their "friendship" (if you could _call _it that, which she didn't know if she could) had begun in the strangest way—her curled up on the curb with a red face and tear tracks down her cheeks, staring at the pavement accusingly, him standing above her, his shadow enveloping her, asking if she was all right—and it only continues to be strange, and obviously one-sided, since she's just using him, isn't she? Using him to complain to, to take out everything on—even though she knows he's not built for that, because he's a quiet guy, and he doesn't like people much (and she's starting to see why, after everything that's happened).

But he never tells her what she wants to hear—and maybe there's a part of her that resents him for it, because without that explanation, she has nothing.


	5. Scene 5

**Scene 5: Elsa, then**

_She met him in the hotel lobby._

She always _hated _parties, and that one was no exception.

It was her first time at _The Westergard, _a fact which seemed to shock everyone, given who she was and the _expectations _those kinds of empty socialites had of others from their ilk.

To her, though, it looked and felt like any other big, chain hotel of its kind—spacious rooms, red-carpeted hallways with tall ceilings, elevators lined with enough mirrors to make a person _cringe _at their own reflection—and so she wasn't quite sure how it had become the _locale_ _du rigueur _for these sorts of social gatherings, nor how she had managed to end up there in the first place.

Naturally, then, she was having a miserable time, since meeting people and "rubbing elbows" (or just touching at all) had never really been something she was comfortable doing, and it didn't take long before she snuck off down to the lobby bar, hoping, perhaps futilely, that whatever drink the bartender was pouring her would at least _calm her down_.

She was three drinks in—or maybe four, her memory was pretty hazy by then—when she first saw him passing through the lobby, _observing._

It was obvious that he was some kind of hotel employee—a manager, probably, from the looks of his sharp suit and smiling, polite manners—but he caught her attention nonetheless, if only because, she absently realised, that he was good-looking.

No, _handsome—_that was the better word, on second thought.

He must have caught her staring at some point, because his eyes suddenly met hers—but she didn't immediately turn away like she usually did, and in retrospect, she blamed the alcohol for that.

_I guess you're from the event upstairs?_

She didn't really want to answer the question, but she was more surprised that he was asking it in the first place—and when he took a seat next to her, ordering a drink for himself, she knew that she didn't have much of a choice, and admitted that she was.

_No wonder you're down here, then._

She blinked at that, because it wasn't what she had expected at all—and wasn't the normal thing to _introduce yourself_ when you meet someone new, and ask how the market was treating your firm, and what kinds of new ventures you're looking into?—and her mouth was slightly ajar while he sipped his drink, managing to say, in a small voice, that she just didn't like parties much.

_Not even for the free booze? _he asked, smirking, and she immediately disliked the expression, though she didn't know why.

(There was something too _familiar _about it, she supposed.)

She couldn't understand, more to the point, how he hadn't recognised her by then—because didn't _everyone _recognise her, the "Ice Queen"?—but her head felt light and heavy all at once, and thinking was a chore, so she shrugged, and swirled the ice around in her empty glass, telling him that no amount of free booze was worth having to put up with _those people._

He chuckled at that, and she decided that, unlike his smirk, his chuckle could stay.

_I can understand that, _he sympathised, a weary smile on his lips. _I'm in the hotel business, after all._

She presumed that it was even worse for him, and wondered aloud how he could put up with rude guests, day in and day out, without going insane; he admitted it wasn't easy, but he didn't have any other options—not coming from _his _family, anyway.

The bitter look on his face reminded her so much of herself, then, that she blurted out how she felt the same—how she didn't want to inherit her father's firm, or major in economics, because it was just so damn _boring, _most of the time—but she cut herself short when she realised how much she'd told him, a total _stranger, _and her face turned red.

He, however, just looked curious_. _

_What do you _want _to do, then?_

Her lips pressed tightly together, and she gripped her glass so hard that if it had been a movie, she was sure it would have shattered in her grasp by then, the shards making her skin bleed.

She wanted to go south—go _anywhere _else, really—just _get away _from everything.

He was quiet for a while, and then his lips started to move, and she was _mesmerised _by them; but before he could answer, someone from _that event upstairs _found her, lightly chiding her for disappearing, _as_ _usual, _and dragged her away without so much as an apology to the man sitting near her at the bar.

And then she was in one of those _awful _elevators again, staring blearily at her reflection while her acquaintance noisily prattled on about something in the background—but as she stared, something occurred to her, and her blue eyes closed, a frown curling on her lips.

She hadn't even gotten his name.


	6. Scene 6

**Author's Note: **Thanks again for the lovely reviews, guys. Sorry if the time-jumps seem confusing, now - I promise it will all make sense in the end (hopefully!).

* * *

**Scene 6: Anna, then**

_She introduced him to her sister._

Elsa, Hans.

Hans, Elsa.

She'd had everything planned out before the "big night," as she was mentally calling it, even though that probably would have sounded dumb to a normal person—it wasn't as though she was getting _married, _or anything—but she knew how anxious Elsa was about meeting new people, and how she hated crowds, and so she'd brought Hans over to their house, asking Gerda if she could make something special for dinner, just for the three of them.

It was a genius plan, really: it simultaneously a) showed Hans around the house, b) introduced him to her only living family, and c) forced Elsa to come out of her room, at least for an _hour_.

At least, that was what she _thought._

In reality, things were awkward from the start—there was something odd about the way they looked at each other when they first met, both their eyes going a little wide, and both quieter for longer than seemed normal—but then Hans introduced himself with his big, charming smile, and Elsa refrained from shaking his hand, and all seemed right with the world again.

It wasn't as if it were a _new _thing, anyway, for Elsa to be so stiff, and _cold; _still, it bothered her that even on such a momentous occasion as meeting her younger sister's _first boyfriend ever_ for the first time,she was so standoffish, and said so little during dinner, even when gently prompted and prodded.

The only thing that even _slightly _piqued her sister's interest was when she brought up the fact that she was surprised that Elsa hadn't met Hans before, since he went to the same college and was only a couple years above her.

Actually, Hans admitted hearing about Elsa (because who _hadn't _heard of the "Ice Queen," really?) and seeing her around campus from time to time, though they'd never actually spoken—and when he said that, she thought she saw Elsa's face go a dark, _angry _red for a brief moment before returning to its normal pallor, and then she simply remarked that _our school is _huge, _Anna—I didn't even know most of the people in _my _year, let alone _his.

But that was her sister, she guessed with a sigh, and Hans reassured her, later that same evening, that _I don't mind, honestly—she probably just had a bad day._

She frowned at that, and told him, irritably, that if that were true, then _every _day was a bad day for Elsa; but, realising how nasty that sounded, she flushed, and apologised, and was just glad that her sister hadn't heard that.

Another part of her, though, wished that Elsa _had _been there—and that she _had _heard it.


	7. Scene 7

**Scene 7: Elsa, now**

_She wonders if it was worth it._

_2pm—North Mt._

She wasn't expecting a text from him—not during a _meeting, _anyway—and she swipes it away, pretending to pay attention as she shoves her phone back in her pocket, her eyes as impassive as ever.

She keeps that mask on for the rest of the afternoon, and takes a late lunch; that's what she tells her associates, anyway, before she gets into her car, and drives—drives as if it's not her, but some other force that's controlling her, propelling her forward.

She glances at her phone from time to time, though there's no point, since he only ever texts once.

She entertains the idea of just stopping the car, making a U-turn, going back to the office—there're plenty of reasons to do it, not the least of which is the possibility that by doing this, and _texting _him, she's making it more and more likely that her phone will get hacked at some point, and then everyone will know that _she's still seeing him_—but once she's been set in motion, she knows she can't turn back.

_The North Mountain—_that's the unofficial name of her parents' old condo where they used to go sometimes for a weekend away from her and Anna. That's fitting, she thinks with a hard grimace, considering what she uses it for now.

And who she's—no, _they—_are escaping from when they go there.

It's a change of scenery from her apartment, and from his; she still isn't used to living on her own yet, because everything about it feels foreign and out of place and _bleak _compared to the comfortable familiarity of her room at home.

(Not that it's "her room" anymore, of course—for all she knows, Anna could have had it bulldozed over several times by now.)

It's not safe, anyway, going to those places—they'd almost been caught out by the paparazzi recently when they thought it would be clear, late at night—and so they've had to find other ways, other quiet corners to hide their shame, or at least hide _hers._

She wonders, then, if it was all worth it—breaking Anna's heart, and her own—but as she steps through the door and he roughly pushes her up against it, savagely kissing her while his hands hike up her skirt, she stops wondering.

Because now she's _feeling_, and feeling is always easier than thinking.


	8. Scene 8

**Scene 8: Anna, now**

_She doesn't understand him._

She thinks back on that "first meeting" between Hans and Elsa with a snort, realising how _obvious _it is, now, that they had already been acquainted in some way—hell, for all she knew, they might've already been _sleeping _together, by then—and Kristoff naturally gives her a curious look.

"What's wrong?"

She blows off the question, as usual.

"It's nothing," she says dismissively, but her lips are set in a grim way, and he frowns at her—frowns in just the same way he does at _most _of the things she says, actually—and once again, she finds herself unable to comprehend why he's there with her.

After all, she's not _paying _him to spend time with her, or sleeping with him, or even just _holding hands_—so when she sees him frowning like that, she matches his expression, though hers is a few shades darker.

"You're doing it again," he reminds her, leaning tensely over his knees. His brow quirks up. "You'll feel better if you just _say _what's on your mind."

She snorts in derision. "Like _you _would know. Wasn't your best friend growing up a _reindeer, _or something like that?" She sneers, unkindly. "I don't think you're one to talk."

He looks embarrassed, but also upset—and his cheeks are hot as he answers.

"You don't have to be such an _asshole _about it, Anna. I'm just trying to—to _help."_

She scowls. "Just go home," she tells him, and crosses her arms, only mildly aware of how childish she looks.

He grunts in annoyance at her, and stands up, staring down at her still seated on the bench in the park.

"Fine," he says, "I'm _going."_

When she hears him start the cab back up, and then the wheels squeak as it goes into reverse, she's annoyed to realise that her stomach hurts—and that she knows _why _it hurts, and that it has nothing to do with the fact that she ate an entire box of truffles a few hours ago out of spite when Kristoff told her she shouldn't.

Instead, it has to do with that _frown_—and how it shows up right below his big, stupid nose whenever she's not telling him something, or lying to him outright—and she can't fathom how he could wear it, and put up with her, especially when no one else does.

And she can't understand why he cares, since no one else ever has.


	9. Scene 9

**Scene 9: Elsa, then**

_He asked her about the pills._

She asked if they could stop by her office, briefly, on their way to his place—she realised she'd forgotten her file on the firm's latest acquisition in the second-to-lowest drawer—and he agreed where he might have been wary before, though he said he had a headache.

She went to go get him something for it—the aspirin from the common room above the shared fridges—and brought it back, but when she walked through the door he was just _standing _there, holding the orange bottle with the white cap in his hand, and her stomach dropped.

_Since when have you been taking _these?

Her face was pale, and her fingers trembled around the aspirin bottle, staring at him blankly.

That's—she didn't know what to say, until she decided to tell the truth. She'd been taking them for years, more so after her parents died … but really, for _years._

_Does Anna know? _he asked, and she bristled a little at hearing her sister's name coming from his lips, since they had an _agreement—_but of _course _Anna didn't know.

He frowned at her.

_Don't you think it's something she _should _know?_

She frowned back—why _should _she know anything? She didn't need Anna worrying about her—

_You're _seriously _going to make that argument right now?_

Her brows knitted—she didn't understand.

_She's_ always_ worrying about you, Elsa—about why you're so closed-off, why you never tell her what's wrong, why you always hide from her—and that's _without_ knowing about _these.

Her skin was blistering again, though her fingers were white from how firmly they were pressing themselves into the sides of the aspirin bottle, _shaking_. Anna was better off not knowing—because not knowing meant one less thing for her to _worry_ about.

_You should talk to her, _he said quietly, raising his eyes to hers, green to blue.

A vein of spite cut across her teeth as she bared them at him—_he _was one to talk.

_I've probably talked to her more in the past _two months _than you have in your entire _life_._

Rage, pure and brittle and _hateful, _spilled out of her lips, made her spit at him—_fuck you_.

_You were going to, _he reminded her, and she could have screamed, then, if she weren't so aware of their surroundings.

He was an _unbelievable_ prick.

_So I've been told, _he shrugged, but he didn't smirk, thank _God, _and his mouth even dipped into a serious sort of expression. _Do they even help?_

Why did it matter to him? One minute he was fucking her on his desk at home, his hand on her throat, his fingers tugging on her hair—and the next he's pretending to care?

She wanted him to give back the pills to her—even if they didn't work most of the time, they're _hers, _and he didn't need to understand that.

_What are you even _saying, _Elsa? You're taking some pretty serious drugs, and they don't even _work? _That's pretty _fucked up.

She drew closer, her lips twisted in contempt, just the way he liked them—he was only there for one thing, anyway.

_And what would that be?_

She grabbed him through his pants, and pulled; he groaned, his cheeks pinking, but she only eyed him disdainfully. She wasn't wrong about him, was she?

_That's—that's not fair, Elsa._

She scowled, shoved him away, told him to get out.

He squared his shoulders, glared at her, but his cheeks were still _flush _with desire.

_Your wish is my goddamn_ _command, _Your Majesty.

He shoved the bottle back in her hands, and stalked off back to the car—and when he was gone, she threw it against the wall, and grit her teeth so hard she thought they might break.


	10. Scene 10

**Scene 10: Anna, then**

_The night he proposed to her._

He told her he had something special planned for them—just the two of them—but that it was a surprise, so he couldn't give away any details.

She had tried to force them out of him, of course, through tickling, tackling, wrestling, kissing, _touching_—but Hans could be unnervingly tight-lipped when he wanted to be, and so she'd finally relented after a few days of pestering him about it (though she'd still eyed him suspiciously every so often, reminding him that eventually, she _was_ going to find out what it was).

As it turned out, though, she was glad he hadn't said anything—because when he lifted his hands from her eyes, she blinked in wonder, and stared for what seemed like _hours_.

There before her was the fjord under a perfect night sky, the aurora borealis hanging in it, moving, _breathing; _it might as well have been the edge of the world, or perhaps infinity, stretching out into the distance.

She was breathless as he led her to a private boat he'd rented—a simple rowboat, nothing more—and she was glad that he took over the oars, because she was still too distracted by the sky to understand the fact that now, they were on the water, and if she reached her hand down just a bit further, she could touch it.

_Have you ever seen it before? _he asked with a wide smile, and she finally looked back at him, her eyes wide with amazement, _genuine _amazement, and she said she hadn't—not like _that, _anyway.

He let her gawk up at the green ribbons lighting up the stars for a few more minutes before she realised that she was probably being rude—after all, he'd gone to such lengths to arrange this very beautiful and romantic outing for them, and there she was, just _staring_—and she reddened sheepishly, asking him, suddenly, what was the occasion, actually?

He stopped rowing, and leaned in closer to her—close enough that she could see the sky reflected in his eyes, making them _greener, _and her cheeks got hot—and he started saying something about how the past month with her had been the best in his life, and he felt like—

_With you, I've found my place._

The rest of what he said blurred together in her mind—it was all very poetic, and soft, and beautiful, of course—and even though she desperately wanted to remember every word that fell from his perfect, pink lips, he'd pulled out a little velvet box at some point in his speech, and her eyes had been _glued _to it ever since.

She faintly heard him when he said it, above the sound of her heart _drumming _in her ears.

_Can I say something … _crazy?

She nodded, barely.

_Will you marry me?_

Then, there was silence—blissful, quiet silence—and tears stung at her eyes, even as she grinned and asked if she could say something even crazier—

Yes.

It was more like a shriek, when she thought about it later; but she didn't care what she sounded like then, or looked like, just so long as she was in his arms—and so she _pounced _on him without warning, planting kisses all over his cheeks, and lips, and eyes, never noticing how the boat was dangerously tipping to the side, even though he tried to warn her between kisses.

And just like that, the boat turned over, taking them with it—or, more correctly, _under _it—and she shivered, not expecting the water to be _that _cold, and groped for his figure in the pitch blackness.

_It's all right, Anna—I'm here, _he said as he grasped her searching hand in his—her left hand—and then he slipped the very wet ring on her finger, and kissed that hand with soaked lips, making her laugh through her chattering teeth.

She loved him; she was sure of that.

So she brought him down for a kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck to stay afloat, and smiled against his lips.


	11. Scene 11

**Scene 11: Elsa, then**

_He dropped the façade._

She was just getting off the bus when she ran into him—or, more to the point, when _he _stopped _her_ along the sidewalk, stepping under the dim glow of the streetlamp, his eyes wide.

_Elsa?_

She tried not to make it _too _obvious that she was none-too-happy to see him, and so she said his name back—but without the _wondering _tone.

_You … were out, today?_

She wanted to just walk straight past him, be on her way; but he was Anna's _fiancé _now, so she had to be civil, and she answered with a straightforward _yes._

_Well, it's late—let me walk you back._

She told him she was fine, and when he pressed her about it again, that it _really _wasn't necessary. She couldn't understand why he was being so insistent.

_Come on—Anna would _kill_ me if she knew I ran into you and let you walk alone at night, so—_

So what? That wasn't her concern, what her sister would do to him; actually, she thought, she rather enjoyed the idea of the two lovebirds having an _argument, _for once.

_Hey, wait a minute—is something wrong?_

She was getting an unpleasant look on her face—she couldn't help it, since he was starting to _irritate _her—and she said it was nothing, and would he just let her _go?_

_Not until you tell me why you're so upset with me, _he said, standing in her way, and she had to curl her lip down from drawing into a sneer.

She managed it just enough to lie, to tell him that she wasn't upset with him, if only so he would move out of the _fucking _way—

_Bullshit_.

She was so _fed up _with him, but she held it in, _for_ _Anna's sake, _and allowed herself to roll her eyes as she pushed past him, her heels clicking sharply against the ground, and muttered that he could believe what he wanted to believe.

_Honestly, what the hell is your _problem,_ Elsa? I've been nothing but nice since we met, but you've been colder than a block of _ice_—_

What was her _problem? _

She finally came to a _grinding _halt at that, and spun around on her heel, stabbing him with a vicious glare, and spat that _he _was her problem—because she didn't trust him, or like him, and she never bought his "Mr. Nice Guy" act for one damn _second._

It felt good, even as her chest heaved from the effort, to say those things to him; but she wasn't expecting the silence that followed, nor the slow, _cold _grin that broke out over his features.

_Well, that doesn't matter much to me—since you're not the one I'm selling it to._


	12. Scene 12

**Author's Note: **Bless you all. You're lovely. I hope you like this scene, too - it's Kristanna, but I'm quite fond of it. I guess I prefer a darker take on this pairing than the norm, though I'm curious to know how you guys feel about it.

* * *

**Scene 12: Anna, now**

_She's drunk, and he's not._

She stares down at her left ring finger, thinking that there should be something there, even though there hasn't been anything on it in ages—not for a few months, at least.

The music is _blaring _in the background, a multitude of too-bright colours dancing across her skin (which somehow glows sallow and pale under the lights), but she's trying to remember something: the joy she used to feel whenever she looked at that hand.

Now it's just a dull feeling of _hate _that courses through her at the sight—she can't muster the energy to be violently angry, like before—and she wishes, absently, that she could tear off that finger and throw it into the fjord like she did the ring.

She's tried to block that night on the boat from her memory, but it comes back to her at all the worst times, like right _now,_ when Kristoff is asking her something—probably "are you okay?", since that seems to be his favourite phrase, when it comes to her—and she spins to meet his gaze, though the sudden movement makes bile rise in her throat.

"Anna—let me get you some water, all right?"

She still can't really hear him right, her vision blurred and hazy from the drinks she's been knocking back too quickly, but she can _see _him just fine, and she can see, clearly, that _look _on his face—those chocolate-coloured eyes soft with concern, his lips pressed together, his dark blonde bangs falling over the light sheen of sweat covering his forehead from the heat inside the bar—and she automatically feels a rush of resentment sweep through her, though it's tinged with a familiar sensation that settles at the bottom of her stomach like a pulse.

She frowns, _deeply, _and he touches her shoulder—whether to steady her or out of worry, she doesn't know—and then she grabs his face and kisses him, _deeply._

He returns the kiss, at first; then, he pulls back in surprise, and holds her shoulders still, stopping her from trying to dive towards him again.

"Anna, you're—you're _drunk," _he tells her even as he's blushing, _hard, _and his pupils are dilated just as wide as hers. "You're not thinking straight."

Whatever small pool of _want _that had briefly overtaken her dissipates, and she scowls as she stands from her chair and slaps away his hands, fuming.

"Don't _fuck _with me," she hisses, and stalks off, fully intending to walk home, even if it means getting soaked in the rain that's currently pouring down in buckets, the wind whipping at her face.

Of course, he follows her out—she probably should have expected as much from him—and his footsteps are heavy against the pavement, ringing in her ears.

"You can't just _leave _like that," he scolds her, but she doesn't stop walking, even though the rain is _biting _at her skin. "You won't make it back by yourself."

She _grinds _on her heel as she turns around. _"Watch me," _she seethes petulantly, and ignores the stab of guilt that strikes her when she finally sees his furrowed brows, his frown, his crossed arms.

"At least let me give you a lift back," he reasons with her, reaching out to her—but she recoils from him, hugging herself, trying to gather her bearings against the rain falling sideways, hitting her skin like so many little knives.

"I don't get it, _Kristoff,"_ she begins, and there's an edge to his name that she doesn't intend to have, but that comes out anyway, "I don't get why you're _doing this _when I just left you in front of all those people, and I treat you like _dirt, _and I—"

"Anna, I—"

He cuts her off, and his face is red—but it's a different kind of red than it was back in the bar, and now he's looking down at the ground, unable to meet her furious stare—and after a while of standing like that, she starts to wonder why he didn't continue.

Looking at him, though, she has an inkling of what he was going to say; and _fear, _cold and brittle, drips along her skin when she realises that she's not ready to hear something like that, because it's too much, too _soon, _and she can't bear to imagine the disappointment on his face when she tells him _I can't._

But then, his shoulders slump in a defeated way—and that's unlike him, she thinks uneasily, _guiltily_—and he gestures to the parking lot.

"Come on—I'll drive you home," he murmurs, and she vaguely recalls that he said the same thing to her the first time they met, months ago, when she was in a fit of despair and he just happened to find her there, on the street corner, miles from home.

He walks off, knowing, somehow, that she'll follow him.

She does.


	13. Scene 13

**Scene 13: Elsa, now**

_She doesn't have _that_ Hans._

She knows he doesn't love her—she's known that since the beginning, really—but he's only making it clearer to her with every passing day just how _much _he doesn't.

It should bother her more than it does, but she also knows that he's only seeing _her_ now, and that he only wants _her_—he's not kissing, or touching, or _caressing _Anna anymore, and that's enough, she thinks, to justify what she's doing.

But the jealousy is still there, green and poisonous and _hateful, _stewing at the pit of her stomach, rising and falling at the back of her throat, because even though she has him, she doesn't have the version of him that her sister did.

_That _Hans, _Anna's _Hans, was someone else entirely: kind, loving, _gentle_.

_Her _Hans, however, is the real one: the one who told her he wasn't selling her anything and then did, the one who told her he would break her heart, the one who's breaking it even now.

Devious, scheming, _cruel._

She remembers it so clearly then, the day everything fell apart—the day after Anna saw them, and found out, and then he told her what he'd _really _wanted from her, how it was all just about spite, and bitterness, and _vengeance _against his brothers for the things he'll never have—and it amazes her all the more that she's stayed with him from then until now, because she doesn't have expectations anymore, or even dreams of what could be.

Dreams that he will take her to the fjord, under the stars, present her with a ring—though even if he did, she wouldn't accept it.

Because she can't accept _him._


	14. Scene 14

**Scene 14: Anna, then**

_She told Elsa about the engagement._

She wondered if Elsa could tell that there was something up.

She was fidgeting, after all—and yes, admittedly, she fidgeted a lot normally _anyway—_but that night, she had barely touched her food at all during dinner.

And when she didn't eat, that usually meant there was something wrong.

She glanced up every so often at her sister, primly cutting through her chicken breast with a knife and fork, occasionally meeting her eyes; finally, she gulped down some water, straightened her posture against the chair, and lifted her chin.

And then she said her sister's name.

_Yes?_

She had news—well, big, big, _big _news—to tell her.

_What is it?_

Elsa remembered … _Hans, _didn't she? The guy she'd been dating?

The older girl's brow quirked up, and there was undoubtedly a hint of suspicion in the movement.

_… yes?_

She looked down in her lap, her fingers clutching at her dress, and as she thought of what to say next, the memory of that night on the fjord hit her like a burst of stars inside of her chest, and a huge, nervous smile broke out on her lips as she recounted how they were out the day before, first for ice cream, then out to the park, around the fjord—

_Uh-huh—_

—and then they were under the aurora borealis, and it was all _super _romantic—

_Right._

—and then he-got-down-on-one-knee-and-proposed-to-me-and-I-screamed-so-loud-I-turned-over-the-boat but you know, it wasn't a big deal, really—

_Wait, _what?

She paused for a moment, and her smile widened even more, if that were possible. Because _yes, _Elsa had heard it right—she was _engaged!_

The silence was so thick following her pronouncement that she wondered if she'd said something wrong—and as Elsa's brows knitted in consternation, that feeling was confirmed.

_Anna … you can't marry someone you _just_ met._

She might have expected that reaction; after all, Elsa hadn't exactly been _keen _on Hans when they were first introduced, and even _before_ then, she'd seemed to disapprove of other things, like the age gap between them, or what _exactly _he might have been using the rooms of the hotel for off-duty.

The smile disappeared from her lips at the thought, a frown replacing it. Elsa's remark didn't make sense to her, because she'd been seeing him for a month, by then—it wasn't as if he'd proposed the very _night_ they'd met!

(Though, in retrospect, if he _had _… she probably would have said yes then, too.)

_And a month is _more_ than enough time to get to know _everything_ about him before you get married, right? _Elsa asked with a scathing sort of sarcasm, and it made her hairs stand on end in anger.

Who was _Elsa _to judge, anyway? To be so cynical about it? It was true love—she wouldn't have said "yes" to just _anyone._

Elsa sighed, and the sound was _gratingly _condescending.

_Anna, what do you even know about _"true love"?

She wanted to snort at the question. She knew more than _Elsa, _at least—and had her older sister ever even _been _on a date with a guy?

_That's not the point,_ Elsa bit back, her face reddening. _You don't need to have _experience_ to know that getting married to someone after just _one month_ is a little unorthodox, to say the _least_. _

Even if Elsa had a point—which she wouldn't concede, because right then all she wanted to do was _win _that argument—she was still being too _closed-minded _about the idea, and anyway, it wasn't as if anything her sister said was going to change her mind.

She loved Hans, and she was going to marry him—whether Elsa liked it or not.

The. End.

_First of all, I'm not being "closed-minded"—just _practical. _Second—_

Elsa stopped, suddenly; she stared at her, and pressed her to continue, though she had a feeling she wouldn't like what her sister had to say.

_Second, if you're _really _serious about this guy—_

She was.

_… well, in that case, even if you don't care about what I think—and you're going to go ahead with this no matter what—I just want you to consider _one _thing, _Elsa went on, and folded her hands on the table, her fingers tense and white.

Her brow rose questioningly—and what was that "one" thing?

_… having a _long _engagement._

She immediately frowned at the suggestion—what did it even _mean? _One month? _Two?_

_Actually, I was thinking more like six, seven—a year, perhaps—_

She stood in irritation at that, the napkin on her lap falling to the floor. A _year? _

No, no, no _way. _

She loved Hans, and he loved her; why would they wait any longer than necessary?

_Look, Anna—I understand that you _"love"_ Hans, and that he may _"love"_ you—_

She scowled.

—_but just _think_ about it, for a minute: you only just started your freshman year of college, and you're already engaged to a man who's graduated and has his own career._

Elsa's expression shifted, became more serious. _And after you get married, then what? _Children?_ Do you _really_ want to be raising kids while you're still in school?_

Her lips pursed, and she crossed her arms; then, she slowly sat back in the chair, though her shoulders were hunched discontentedly.

She hadn't thought about those things.

_Well, it's a lot to think about, _Elsa said, but didn't sound as patronising as before._ So please—don't even do it for me, just … for _yourself_. All right?_

She shrugged, not looking at her, telling her she would _consider _the idea.

Elsa's sigh of relief—and the _thank you_ that followed—made her wish she hadn't agreed.


	15. Scene 15

**Scene 15: Elsa, then**

_The first time he kissed her._

She saw him before he approached, this time—and the sight of him made her glower before he'd even opened his mouth.

What did he _want?_

_You._

She scoffed at the reply, and how he leaned against the bookshelf, _leering _at her.

He was disgusting.

_Am I? _he asked, smiling in a distinctly _pleasant _way. _Your sister doesn't seem to think so._

Every single thing about him _repulsed _her, and she kept a safe distance between them.

_Well, that's a little _vague, _Elsa. Come on—tell me _exactly _what you hate about me._

Her teeth were already on edge, and she snapped them, her wrist flicking at her side.

He wanted specifics? Fine—she could do _specifics _when it came to him.

He was shameless, for one thing—no, lower than _scum _for going after her like that, behind Anna's back, and talking to her as if he knew her, following her around not once, but _twice—_and that was all without even getting to the reasons why he was pursuing her sister in the _first _place.

His smile, to her amazement, _widened_.

_Which are? _

Her nose tilted up in defiance—why didn't he tell _her _what they were?

He shrugged. _You probably wouldn't believe me if I told you the truth._

She snorted—probably not—but he had to say it, now.

_If you insist_, he replied, and then paused. _Well, for starters—it _does _have to do with money. _

Her eyes narrowed at him. So he was _finally_ admitting it?

_You know about my family, I guess—how I'm the thirteenth son of Therese and Oskar Westergard, obligated to work in the family business, like you—_

Yes, of course, she _knew _that. But what did that have to do with anything?

His eyes shuttered dark.

_I want your firm to buy us out, _he said without a hint of his usual, false charisma. _Westergard Hotels._

She blinked, and her mouth opened for a moment—she didn't understand.

_It's going under—the whole chain—but my father's too proud to admit it. He'd rather hold on until the company's gone bankrupt than sell it while it still has some market value._

He cracked his knuckles, and she watched the movement, spellbound, hardly comprehending what he was saying.

_You can verify it for yourself, of course, but all the tell-tale signs are there: layoffs of the higher-ups, bills that will never be repaid on time, massive cuts in pay … _He shrugged. _I know it'll hurt father, but … it's for the best_.

She snapped out of her daze, and as her arms tensed again, she eyed him dubiously, because his story didn't make much sense. If he was _really _just interested in "saving" his family's company—a motive which she didn't trust in the _slightest, _anyway—and needed _her_ to buy him out, shouldn't he have gone after …

_After what, Elsa? _You?

She couldn't bring herself to say that—and so her throat _burned _instead in silence.

_Admittedly, as heir to the firm, you were _preferable, _of course—but no one was getting anywhere with _you.

His words cut her more painfully than she would admit—and made her head _throb _with their bluntness, with their _truth._

_But _Anna? _She's so desperate for love that she's willing to marry me just like _that. _And once we're married, and you've bought the chain, I'll be free from them—my father, my brothers—and with the Andersen name behind me, I'll move on to _better _things._

He chuckled, and she shuddered at the sound, crossing her arms—no, more like _hugging _them against her body—and scowled. What made him even _dare _to think that she would have bought out his company before, let alone _after _everything he'd just said?

_Because it doesn't matter what kind of person I am, or what my intentions are—we both _know _that you'd look good, _damn _good if you brought this business into the fold._

He smiled knowingly, and she _hated _him then; she didn't need his stupid chain of hotels.

_Maybe _you _don't think you do, but … if the board found out that you missed this _golden _opportunity,_ _I don't think they'd be thrilled_ _that you passed up on it._

His lip curled insidiously.

_And neither would Anna, once I told her._

She could have spit on him, then—at least, she _wanted _to, and she might have actually done it, if they weren't in that _damn _library. As if she would _ever _allow him to marry her sister, after all of that—

_But you will—you _have _to, because you know how _devastated _she'll be if I leave her, don't you? _His gaze tightened. _And for what? Because I wanted you to buy the company? _

He looked far too relaxed, too _casual, _for the venom that was _dripping_ from him.

_Even if you tell her that's my only_ _motivation for going after her, who do you think she'll believe when I say that's not the case? When I tell her that her sister is just being selfish,_ _and wants her to be as _miserable _as she is?_

She felt sick, listening to him—and her head hurt more than ever—but she felt rooted to that spot, compelled to hear all of her faults spelled out for her, because a part of her thought she _deserved_ that much.

_Don't worry, though—I don't intend to say anything like that to her, _he assured her condescendingly, drawing nearer, _too _near. _Not so long as you keep_ _quiet,_ _too._

She swallowed, and her lungs felt constricted as she tried to breathe normally, to ignore the strange mixture of loathing and fear and _heat _that bubbled in her chest as he stepped closer, _closer._

His head tipped down.

_Oh—and there's something else, too, that I want from you._

Every line in her face was creased and aggravated as it jerked up to meet his, realising, too late, that doing so only ensured that she could feel his breath against her cheek, against her ear, on her _neck_.

Her hands curled into fists, and she said, finally, that she didn't know what he was talking about.

_I think you do._

Her jaw clenched as she shoved him away, her cheeks the colour of ripened apples—and she told him not to _fuck _with her, because—

He kissed her, forcefully, _fiercely, _his hand against her collar.

She slapped him, forcefully, _fiercely, _her hand turned bright red from the contact.

And she told him to get out.


	16. Scene 16

**Scene 16: Anna, now**

_She remembers how they met._

She suddenly remembers the first time she met Kristoff, because it's not when she _thought _she first met him—after she walked in on _them, _and then walked out of the house, no, _ran _out of it, and he found her on the curb, talked to her, calmed her down—in fact, it was a long time before that ever happened.

Of course, the memory returns at the worst time possible, because that seems to _always _be the case with her; in fact, she's in the middle of a meeting with her guidance counsellor on campus, and she _was_ trying to explain why she might need to extend her leave of absence from one semester to a whole year when suddenly, she's shocked mute.

"Miss Andersen? Is everything all right?"

She snaps back to reality long enough to say "yes, sorry, I'm fine" and continue with her speech—a speech she'd prepared, but which is now falling apart as it leaves her lips, because even though her timing is the _worst, _she can't help but pore over every moment of that memory.

Like the moment when she hired a cab from the sidewalk, practically running headfirst into it, her eyes wild with panic, desperate to get to Elsa before she got on the plane, because their parents were worried sick and she couldn't _stand _the misery on her mother's face.

Or how she felt as if she were about to throw up when the cab pulled over, so full of anxiety, and confusion, and _anger _towards her sister, not understanding why she was trying to run away from home, why she always _shut everyone out._

Or how _he_ had been the driver, _Kristoff_, and she had screamed at him to go faster, and with his help she had gotten there in time—not that it had mattered, though, since Elsa didn't have the courage to go through with it anyway, and was standing by the windows, watching the plane she was supposed to be on take off with a look of hollow resignation, tear tracks dried on her pale cheeks.

And she remembered that most clearly of all: how Elsa just _stood there_ and took it as she berated her, _yelled_ at her in front of everyone at the airport, and didn't even move when she hugged her tightly.

Didn't _reciprocate_.

None of that matters anymore, she thinks, as her mouth moves, and says something vaguely pitiable that makes the counsellor nod sympathetically; none of the parts related to _Elsa, _anyway.

But when she remembers _his _face staring at her, _worrying _for her, even all those years ago—she has to swallow down the blush rising in her throat, because then _no one _is going to feel sorry for her.

And she needs them to, just for a little while longer.


	17. Scene 17

**Scene 17: Elsa, then**

_She likes _this _Elsa better._

_Are you seeing someone?_

She nearly choked on her water, staring at Anna in something like dumbfounded silence.

_What _did she just say?

The redhead stuttered, looking nervous. _I was just, uh, you know, I noticed something, well, _different _about you, recently, and I thought, maybe—_

Something … _different? _Her brow rose, her grip tightened.

_It's nothing bad, really, just ... um, I see you smiling more than usual lately, and sometimes I even see you _blushing_, so I guessed—_

Her heart raced in her chest—she couldn't have her sister getting any _ideas_ about it—and calmly denied it.

_You sure? I mean, it really _seems _like you are, but—_

Her denial was flat and hard the second time, and she thought her hand might slip around the glass.

Anna looked down, contrite. _Oh ... nevermind, then. Stupid question. I mean, you're always so busy—working, events, planning stuff—when would you have time for a _guy_, right?_

She swallowed thickly, and agreed.

_Not that you can't be in a relationship, or something like that—you're so _beautiful_, after all, I mean, any guy would be lucky to have you—I just … _Anna trailed off sheepishly, blushing.

She allowed herself a small smile at the expression, since she knew her sister meant well—it was okay.

Her sister sighed in relief. _Oh, well, that's good. I didn't want to make it seem like I was saying you were _frigid_, or something, you know—_

She raised a warning brow, and Anna's hands fidgeted over the tablecloth.

_Okay. I'll shut up now._

She was thankful for the silence left in the wake of that—thankful, but also saddled with a deep sense of _dread _about the conversation, and everything that had been left unsaid.

Was she … was she really that _different _from before?

Anna looked up in surprise; she hadn't expected another question.

_Well, of course, you're still you, but ... yeah, I think so._ She smiled. _In a good way, though! I mean, you're usually so closed off—no offense—and it's kind of hard to figure out what you're really thinking, but these days ... I dunno._ Her blue eyes warmed._ You just seem ... happier._

The word slapped her across the face, scalding her.

_(Happier.)_

_Yeah. But I guess I was wrong about the relationship thing, so ... is something else going on?_

A tingle of anxiety re-entered her fingertips, though she tried to mask her discomfort. What else did Anna mean?

_Maybe like something related to work? _

No—nothing like that.

(Nothing Anna could know about, anyway.)

Anna was curious, but—unlike usual—she didn't push the issue, perhaps too pleased with actually getting more than a few sentences out of her older sister to challenge her further.

_Well, whatever it is, keep doing what you're doing! _she exclaimed with a grin, and stuffed a truffle in her mouth, the chocolate poking against her left cheek. _Because I like this Elsa—and I think _you_ like her more, too._

She returned her sister's smile, barely—and when Anna turned back to her food, satisfied with the reaction, she had to fight the urge to flee the room.

Her hands were shaking.


	18. Scene 18

**Author's Note: **Thanks again to everyone for your continued support. Means the world to me! x

* * *

**Scene 18: Anna, then**

_The first time they made love._

She'd never been one to keep to tradition, even when it came to something like this; and actually, _Hans _had been the one to hesitate, to ask _are you sure?, _to consider the idea carefully.

She adored him all the more for it.

In fact, she'd never intended to wait until they were married to do it, contrary, she guessed, to what he expected—and how _could _she, when all she could think about was how _good_ it would feel to have his hands run over her skin, over every sensitive place she'd scarcely touched herself, and to have him look at her, _drink _her in, as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen?

If nothing else, her fantasies of that night had made the decision _for _her, and—as bluntly as ever—she'd approached him straight out about it one day, a couple weeks after he'd proposed, nearly causing him to crash the car as he drove her back home.

When he got over that initial shock, and all the fussing over whether she was _sure _about it, he'd blushed in the cutest way—the red spreading first over his already-rosy cheeks, to his ears, down his neck, under the collar of his white dress shirt, which she _desperately _wanted to unbutton—and it made her want to ask him to stop the car then and there, and crawl over to the backseat, because she was never good at being patient.

He'd talked her down from there, convinced her that the first time should be romantic, and intimate, and _special; _and when she remembered the effort he'd gone to with the proposal, her heart had fluttered, and she'd quickly agreed to wait (even if the butterflies in her stomach burst in the meantime).

That was how, another week or so later, she had ended up there, in a room of the _Westergard, _the place where they'd first met, a private suite he'd finagled just for the two of them, for that one night. She might have known that he would have all the "works" set up beforehand, with the rose petals, and the candles, and the dinner set for two, but those perfect little additions pleasantly surprised her, and she kissed him gently in thanks.

Of course, when she tried to deepen the kiss, he softly pushed her away, smirking in a way that made her knees weak.

_Not yet, you, _he scolded her, though his eyes had darkened a little from the taste of her, and suddenly she realised that she was going to have to sit through dinner, and rose petals, and _candles_ without being able to change her underwear—or even being able to take it off—and she squirmed uncomfortably at the notion, making him grin.

Despite that, she managed to sit through dinner, because, well, it was _him _sitting across from her, smiling, telling her about the Southern Isles, and his _twelve _older brothers, and how they ignored him—and it made her respond in kind with knitted brows, telling him about how she used to be so close with Elsa when they were little, but then, her sister's _problems _had started, and she shut her out, and her parents sent her away to boarding school while Elsa was tutored at home, and even after she'd come back when their parents died, there was still a giant wall between them.

(Actually, it was a door—_Elsa's _door.)

He'd listened, _understood, _because his older brothers had done the same to him—_three of them pretended I was invisible, literally, for _two years—but he couldn't imagine what it must have been like for her, not knowing, or _seeing, _her only sister for so long.

It was strange, she thought, to be having that conversation _then, _considering what they were going to be getting up to _later; _but she also felt lighter unloading that tightness in her chest, the heaviness that was always pressing down on her, threatening to topple her over.

In a strange way, it made her feel even more _intimate _with him than before, because she hadn't ever told anyone else those things.

Because no one else had ever cared enough to ask, or even _listen._

And maybe it was the same for him, she realised, though the idea stunned her a little, since he was so _handsome_, and seemed pretty popular—she couldn't imagine a time when he would have felt alone, and bitter, and _scared _like she had been—but she believed him, because she recognised the same anger in his brow that she used to carry, and still did.

The same _resentment._

But then, the look faded, and they made their way to the bed; she brushed away the petals, and he looked apologetic, scratching the back of his head.

_Sorry—it's a bit much, isn't it?_

She bit her cheek to keep from giggling too loudly at the question, crawling across the bed until she was kneeling in front of him, and grinned cheekily, telling him that she liked it, actually.

He allowed her, then, to draw her into the kiss she'd attempted earlier—but the kiss threw him off-balance, and he landed nearly on top of her, stopping himself so that he hovered above her while her back laid against the bed, her eyes looking up at him with a devious sparkle.

He reddened.

_To be honest, I—I don't have much experience with this kind of thing, _he confessed, _adorably, _and she bit her lip as her brow rose in scepticism. _My brothers drove away all the girls I was ever interested in growing up, so even when I was in college, I … _he trailed off, and looked embarrassed. _I didn't really have the confidence to approach anyone._

She wondered if he was _really _telling the truth about it—after all, he was so_ gorgeous_, and so damn _perfect, _that she found it hard to believe he was just an amateur—but he just looked so stupidly _cute _there, keeping a polite distance above her, that she grinned wider, and her hands came to rest on the back of his neck, pulling him down towards her.

And then she kissed him again, but more _sensuously _than before; when she felt something hard against her thigh, and his face get hot, she knew she must have been doing something right.

_Anna—_

She cut him off with another kiss, more pressing, more _fervent _than the one before, and he stopped trying to talk—because his hands were gently working at the buttons on her shirt, and she the zipper on his pants, and there wasn't anything else to say.

Well, except for one thing—that she loved him—and she breathed that into their kiss, onto his lips, causing him to pause, just for a second, and look at her, really _look _at her, and lift a hand to stroke the side of her face.

The movement was long, and lovely, and calm—_intoxicating, _even—and then he took the end of her braid and touched his lips to her hair, making her blush.

_I love you, too._

The blood was _pulsing _in her face, between her thighs, and she thought she might cry, then, in that instant, in that speck of time, hearing him say those words. But he held her in his arms, and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and the tears were never shed.

And she didn't think she could ever love someone more than she did him in that moment.


	19. Scene 19

**Author's Note: **Earlier update than usual because I'll be gone most of the weekend. Warning: NSFW. Happy 4th!

* * *

**Scene 19: Elsa, now**

_She's jealous of Anna._

Normally, when his hands are raking down the front of her shirt, and _under _it, touching her in just the way she likes, she doesn't say a word of complaint—actually, she just _moans, _or _sighs, _and encourages him—but now, when she's trying to get dressed for work after spending the night at his apartment, and he's unbuttoning every button on her shirt that she's just fastened, she merely finds him _aggravating._

"Would you _stop that?" _she snaps, but her body is betraying her even then, because her underwear is _soaking _without him even touching her there yet, and her neck is tingling as he leaves kisses along it, his sideburns tickling her skin.

"It doesn't seem like you want me to," he says, grinning as he pulls her shirt up from under the waistband of her skirt, undoes the last button of the shirt, and spreads it open for easier access.

She doesn't argue with that, even though she wants to—and she _could _if she tried, since he's going to make her late for work, which is as legitimate a reason as any to push him away—but it's rare that she sleeps the night at his place anymore, let alone wakes up to him being so _ravenous _with her, and so she soaks in the attention, and shudders as he sucks on the spot just behind her right ear, the spot that makes her hips _buck _against his without even meaning to.

His hand reaches down between her thighs, then—reaches, and _touches, _and she hears a low chuckle escape his throat, the kind that used to make her _tremble _with desire.

"You _definitely _don't want me to stop."

That sentence, spoken with such _ease, _suddenly makes her feel cold—as cold as the "block of ice" he once accused her of being—and even as her body jerks against his fingers running along her folds, _disgustingly _slick with want, there's the familiar feeling of _envy _curling itself around her heart, under the same breast he's absently caressing with his left hand.

Because suddenly, she remembers it: the way Anna _gushed _to her, in confidence, about her first time with Hans, leaving out the details but still saying too much.

The memory is enough to make her sick.

"Is this what you used to do to _Anna?" _she asks, gritting her teeth as he slides two fingers _in_ and _out_ of her. "Is this how you _touched _her?"

He growls in annoyance, moves so that he's standing in front of her, and then pushes her back onto the mattress, ignoring her cry of protest.

"I don't understand how you can even _ask _me that," he retorts with a scowl, but even as he does, he gets down on his knees on the floor in front of her, and spreads her legs, lifting them up over his shoulders, even as they flex tensely, trying to reject him.

And then she feels it—his_, _perfectly-angled, _royal_ nose rubbing sharply against the crotch of her panties—and she breathes in sharply, her legs freezing.

She intends to stop him, to collect her wits, to ask him, _again, _if this is all the same to him—Anna or Elsa, it doesn't matter, so long as _his _needs are fulfilled—but he's pushed aside the fabric between his tongue and her _centre _before she can say anything, and her eyes roll back, a _moan _escaping her.

But it's still there, at the back of her mind, through the haze of lust clouding her thoughts: the idea that he did this to her, to _Anna, _and when he did it, he was probably sweet, and kind, and _slow—_not greedy, and harsh, and _fast _like he is now—and she trembles.

(And then, she comes.)


End file.
